


You Held The Balance Of The Time That Only Blindly I Could Read You (But I Could Read You)

by PansexualDonnaNoble



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hank Whump, Hank dies, Hospitals, Major character death - Freeform, Old Age, Sickness, Time Jump, effective robot immortality, it's MY FANFICTION and i get to choose the long lasting trauma i inflict on my characters, major character illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PansexualDonnaNoble/pseuds/PansexualDonnaNoble
Summary: The lights that surpass and dazzle are a bittersweet waltz of technicolor palm dreams. Vacancies in hotels of constellations and stars above him that ride with his silent, staggering silence.He doesn't take taxis. Ever since Connor moved further in to the heart of Detroit; it's soul provided an influx of the convenient convenience of accessible walking. Since then - he's only ever walked.Today is different, however. And to indulge in the safety of normalcy and its pouring pattern of roaring rhythm would downright be an insult; inflamed by transparent facade.It'd be impossible to anyways.Today is different.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	You Held The Balance Of The Time That Only Blindly I Could Read You (But I Could Read You)

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty sure every fanfiction i've written for this fandom i've put connor through SOMETHING. but god believe me when i say i love that man

The lights that surpass and dazzle are a bittersweet waltz of technicolor palm dreams. Vacancies in hotels of constellations and stars above him that ride with his silent, _staggering_ silence.

He doesn't take taxis. Ever since Connor moved further in to the heart of Detroit; it's soul provided an influx of the convenient convenience of accessible walking. Since then - he's only ever walked.

Today is different, however. And to indulge in the safety of normalcy and its pouring pattern of roaring rhythm would downright be an _insult;_ inflamed by transparent facade.

It'd be impossible to anyways.

Today is _different._

Or; night. Connor thinks. The earth's ebony sky is too exhausted by previous performance to call it anything else now. His chestnut eyes swirl in the dreamy vortex of crystalized crystal lights; a circus of rainbow exacerbated by city lights. It's nice until it isn't - and a ghost of what pain would smell and taste like flickers above his eyebrows in fed up, brightened annoyance at the sight. Dissolving before it can turn sour with hearsay and unholy behavior.

Time's indigo and crimson; flying, flying, _flying,_ endless and dauntingly dauntless, impassioned like o' lovers scorned. Giddy like gospel; but terrible like a heart's break. Rare rarity that dances in woodlands like legendary lore.

Time is unfair. Time does not hold love and compassion within its frequently aching heart; unable to be bribed with flowery words nor does it reek of mercy. It has no God of any kind to strive to please; to strive to talk over and misinterpret; therefore it acts within its own interest - without previously building up pretenses beforehand. All time knows is movement. This is no ones fault; least of all its own. Like any feature of nature it has a purpose and its purpose is the stench and call of calamity.

Currently; Connor is a bystander to its viciousness.

Distantly his fingers roll through the pockets of his unwashed jeans; too preoccupied the previous afternoon to have done any significant amount of laundry. The object of his affection is a lone quarter; silver streams of virtually obsolete currency that stutter forwards into his grip like some hivemind of clockwork. It's familiar and needed; a comfort long before comfort was allowed and registered. Through the threads of time it has latched onwards to him.

It is a vaudeville performance of highly esteemed showmanship; eyes fixed, eyes undaunted. Unkindly proof of inhuman quirks. It flies and dies in a millisecond and restarts the seconds before its death far too foolhardy. The fingers it travels on are worn; haunted by unheard - though felt, creaks. Like tin cans scrapping by.

He misses a step. It swings over his hands and smacks the window to his right - deafening; though overall harmless. It is not without the annoyed stirring of the driver; one of the few driver's left in a sea of self driving.

It lands on the floor in its ensuing descent. Without the stimulus Connor flounders and fidgets with his thoughts.

_He does not want this._

Today is different.

To the left of him are false flowers; store bought and caked in scarlet colored shades that reek of a smell all his sensors and programs combined cannot identify with utmost certainty.

Flowers - _flowers?_ why _Roses?_ why any flowers? _why did he bring flowers?_ The human didn't even care for flowers, they weren't going to help that's for sure. What was he saying, giving them?

Congratulations? Were flowers not a _happy_ human concept?

Well funerals argued against that theory, he supposed.

It's not a funeral.

Yet.

He thinks he might have read the suggestion in a book somewhere; maybe Kara had suggested it. Or maybe he came up with it entirely due to his own free thoughts. Connor comes up with a number of sensible ideas occasionally.

It's _nice._ It felt... nice. It felt like a nice thing to do; the _normal_ thing to do for someone who was going to...

Who was...

Connor is... new to this. Twenty-three years of the freedom of glorious free will has only helped so much in regards to his knack for understanding human society.

He's never had to do something like this before - there had been the day with Sumo, and it had felt almost as... overstuffed, as this; but it was agonizingly very much _not_ the same. And the day with Josh, though he never quite knew him. It is not the same because this is _him._ Irrational as it was he clung to the idea that a day like this was absurd. intangible and congruent with implausibility.

But, it is here, nonetheless.

It's not like those times. Emotionally, speaking. And he's gotten the hang of those, too. However perplexing.

Connor's not well acquainted with meaningful loss.

Hank is in the hospital, as of three weeks ago. A puzzle piece formed by a number of internal mishaps - connected first and foremost by time's growth of age.

As of a brief phone call this afternoon; by the end of the week he is not destined to ever leave it.

Logically; he knows there is nothing he could have done to prevent this - he had briefly moved back in with the human a a year backwards, and took time off to care for him after his first stroke. It had been a long time since either of them lived under the same roof, and it left him with a longing and nostalgia for something simpler. But, true to the man's nature; the connoresque coddling and nursing had gotten old _fast_ for him.

("Christ, kid, I swear if you make my bed for me one more time...")

And, unless he had a time machine; there was no way for him to have stopped the consequences of a pre Connor Hank Anderson, either.

To put it simply; There is too much; of everything. Failure is too abundant, for any hope to be entertained any longer. The last few months have made Connor wish to be something other than the longevity of enduring metal.

He is unsure of how he is going to manage this. But he'll do it it, and he is doing it already, evidently.

It's not exactly like the last few months have been anything else but practice. Maybe the last few years, even.

Androids are very different than humans.

Eventually the lights leave him. The waves of illumination escape and fade as the taxi pulls gently into the parking lot of a grand, amber hospital building, decorated by glowing signs and plentiful windows; ever shortly interrupted by the tires barreling over a bump.

It's not an clear nor empty sight; dozens upon dozens of vehicles lay within the darkness. Unlit and hushed, observing. Their owners busied with other concerns as they remain in an abandoned state of existence for the time being.

It's awfully late. It doesn't mean much, however. Not for places like this.

How heinous. Thinks Connor.

He stares up at it; the quietness of its apathy watching him too. He stares at it and keeps staring at it. If he does this he does not have to go through with anything else. He stares. It won't stop staring back at him.

Unfortunately, it does, stop staring. The flowers brush up against his chest as the linger in his grip. The red is awkward against his black bomber and jeans and the tips of the bouquet tickle his hairless chin. Or it would; if he had been built able to experience that type of sensation. Instead, it merely brushes up against it, and the touch is cold.

Staying would be worse. Every second he denies this is another minute he loses. But if he stays in here forever nature will interfere instead.

And not saying goodbye wouldn't leave him. Probably.

Definitely.

He breathes in a breath he doesn't need; yet another trait adopted from years integrated as an equal in human society. In front of him the driver callously eagerly and impatiently taps his bony fingers against the steering wheel. In the mirror he sees himself be stared at with an expecting glare. Connor reaches to his LED, pressing down on it; already yellow as it swirls and blinks, the navigation system ahead flickering with recognition for his actions. As a result; the frown on the driver's face eases up - melting into unknowingly insensitive indifference.

The door slides open automatically in the aftermath, a dull little chime and prerecorded message erupting through and cutting the silence. There is weight to be noticed when he steps out; a mountain or behemoth to face with the arrival of his steps on concrete.

Oh; his shoes touched the ground. This was real, then.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Connor likes hospitals.

He knows they are not a overall pleasant place. He doesn't pretend to think of them as anything other than a place that shifts between levels of healing and levels of crushing crusades of death. Both terrible and hopeful things happen here; the duality of human invention.

But the halls are florescent, flowing jungles of entrancing aromas of cleaning supplies and disinfectants; dizzying and daring, the smells of life, the smells of activity; clementine freshness. There's a bustling metropolis of activity; another parallel universe where rest is for those most unwelcome, and soon to leave. Prodigious and superlative; boundless and imminent; thundering with strict order.

It's _alright._ He likes the organization of it all. The order. It's not alright now.

Human hospitals were very different from android versions. He couldn't count on both of his hands the amount of times he's been to the latter. But he's been to a human hospital a total of ten times; not counting all the times he's visited Hank, then merely twice.

Not bad.

Once, he had been paired up with Detective Gavin Reed - or just Gavin Reed, considering his departure from the force, after Hank had been injured and unable to come to work for two weeks. He didn't hate Gavin, but the other's unfailing contempt for him hadn't been pleasant to endure; especially since he had only ever been civil towards him.

They had been investigating a potential lead on a double homicide when the suspect had ambushed them both; and though Connor had _tried_ to push him out of the way, despite their differences, he didn't want him to _die._ Especially if he could do something about it. It worked - if he hadn't the man would of gotten a bullet to the brain - but it landed in his leg instead.

Still; the alternative would have been worse.

Gavin still disliked him - Hank had told him some people would hate you no matter what you did. Even if the only reason he was disliked was because he was built off of plastic and metal.

If it was any consolation - he didn't like Gavin much either - though not because he was built up of blood cells and genuine. organs.

As Hank would say with colorful language; he disliked him because he was _an asshole._

The other had been an accident really; an officer - Tina, had bumped into him running down the steps. The result was a halfway tumble down them and a fracture of the leg that left him just slightly guilty over all of it.

But those times were decidedly _not_ like any of the other times.

His android status goes unnoticed; or uncared for as he walks the halls of the building, having failed to find a reason to remove the LED on him since his deviation, reminded of how far Detroit has come in the two decades since the snowy night of revolution.

There is a unseen band that pounds violently and disgustingly against his skin; his chest, his pump. It builds a fort of madness within him - on a foundation of crippling unease. It drums and smashes pans and pots and instruments throughout. It's _evil and selfish._ It's evil and _wrong._ He hates it; he wants to trample it _to death._ He hates their performance and wants to shout his opinion of them to their withered faces. It is unease because there is still room for further deniability. It's bitterly cold in the hospital and reminds him of a terrible escape from a white garden.

He hasn't thought about the betrayal and misplaced trust of that place in eight years.

Feeling are - feelings. Feelings are odd and wondrous and fill him with questions on any other day, he's endlessly understanding his own complexity and deviancy but not now, now he -

There's a door in front of him. Or to the left of him, specifically. A copper plaque sits in the center of it. Room **202.** It's cracked open slightly - closed though the contents behind it faintly knowable. It's blank and boring with only the color grey to it.

He can hear beeping. _He can hear it._

**STRESS LEVELS: 68%**

There's buzzing; like bees in his body, a sensation that is fleeting and hurtful but fleeting. He blinks - shooting a glance downwards. He's clutched the thorns too long and too heavily, its pierced his palm with too much roaring passion, and small droplets of blue are beginning to seep out like pus from the wound to slide down his wrist and shatter on the green-blue ground.

He's never felt this way before. He's... he's _felt_ but not this grandly. He doesn't want to bash his head against Hank's hospital bed.

**STRESS LEVELS: 62%**

Already the wound is repairing itself; and the scattered holes in his palm are closing themselves. He doesn't pay attention to the details of it as he swallows down the tremendous symphony that is playing a concert in his throat - he struggles to digest all their instruments and violins. He might as well have swallowed a great orchestra of eighteen musical ripe oranges.

Connor pushes open the door with his free hand.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Androids are in many ways, like humans. And humans are painfully unlike androids.

The air conditioning hits his synthetic skin with holy haunting deliverance. The lack of any lighting is kept at bay by the shadows of light from a nearby televison on the wall, muted and playing a basketball game, and Detroit's lights outside of the large white windows. There's a growth in sound for steady beeping; and medical equipment is lined up meticulously around each other; various plugs and cords in various outlets.

Next to them is a bed with Hank Anderson in it.

Unlike humans; androids don't age. They do not get sick. They do not grow bouquets of grey on their heads and seas of _crumbling_ wrinkles. They love and experience the timeless tenderness of the human condition - its flaws and bumbling mishaps. But time's spitfire is not something that they can know with the same forlorn intimacy that humans do.

They are young; fresh faced marvels. They will remain young as they outgrow the vines and little weeds of the earth and their own invented gods; that have never shown their faces to have been considered to have abandoned them - and their own creator. Any human friendship will ultimately prove self destructive.

They have atomic batteries; built to last nine hundred years at most and one hundred and thirty at minimum for regular machines. But no android has ever lived that long to see what happens when they die - but said batteries were easily obtained. Like, after the first year of deviation; Connor had discovered that as a prototype, he had only a two year battery within him; and with the help of Jericho; searched the ruins of an android graveyard for something compatible.

He does not know how long this one is destined for. And Connor has _moved farther_ in deviancy than he ever thought possible.

While age is not a factor they will ever know; time greets them in its own way. Like with any machine things grow bumpy. Connor's body has slowed from its perfect reflex; still shining with golden combative ease - but more open to frequent missteps - even if they were rare, and unseen. And occasional creaks emit from his plastic casing, like bones cracking in a human knuckle.

He's heard it from Markus more times than he can count. He doesn't know how long the android has been alive and online.

Immortality was fickle and dipped in the rarity of twin moons. But it was not kind either. Immortality laid and lays upon the foundation of knowing hellos and soon goodbyes.

Connor does not _want_ to say such goodbyes.

Hank's body is thin; skinnier than he had been in his more younger years. Gaunt. He's watching the game in front of him. His hair has withered into barely there strands of clear gray, balding but his beard is still strong. There's a gown on him of blue and white; and an uncharacteristic paleness to him. Not pale, more than pale - transparent. He's hooked desperately to countless machines - _life support,_ Connor remembers. There's tubes in his nose - also hooked to the many machines, helping him breathe what little amount he _can._ He can see his lines go up and down; _not yet flat._ And an IV in his veins.

Officially; it's a trio of things. Though he had been - _has_ been, sober for twenty-two years, the man's liver was still swimming with blinding hot rage for years of grief stricken horrendous abuse and treatment. His heart's clinging to what little strength it has left - having never truly gotten free of a heart attack seven years prior. The three strokes at different periods of time within the last couple months definitely hadn't helped things. Or contracting pneumonia over the weekend.

And he was... just... old. He was old and only getting older. Seventy-six as of last month. Connor's watched him grow and fade firsthand. He's had the honor of watching him rise from the ashes of drunken grief and heal; with his help. He's had the priviledge of being his...

Hank is old. This is something that was going to happen eventually. Even if Connor could _somehow_ have helped prevent the strokes. The liver damage. The heart attack and the problems it brought. The pneumonia. Even if he could have been _Connor_ and nag (suggest) the man into treating his body better.

That's what partners did. Or former ones.

He... he wants...

Hank doesn't notice him. Not right away. His eyes weren't the best as of late either. But he doesn't see him by the door; uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Suddenly he misses Sumo again.

But he steps forward.

"Lieutenant." It stumbles from his throat. Soft; warmth that spreads through the room like butter on bread. It's so very an un-Connor tone. He doesn't like it.

It's slow - but gradually Hank's attention falls to him. Moving his head from the TV to across the room. Connor wants to turn the light on to see him better; but is hesitant, not wanting to increase any discomfort.

Connor's died before. Twice. It was the easiest thing to do. Mainly because the only thing he cared about was advancing his mission. Yet it was... scary. It was. He felt fear. He thinks. Some form of it numbed by programs upon programs built on lies and manipulation. But it was without pain. It's not like he could feel pain anyways. There's a bullet in his chest and brain and then it is over.

Or he is falling from a rooftop in flight and he does not register the ending. There wasn't machines to keep him alive like this. There wasn't exactly * _time_ * for that.

Hank's eyes find him. There's dullness in them - but a dim twinkle.

And he _smiles._ Or tries to. It comes out dopey and sluggish.

"That... you, kid...?" His voice is... wheezy. Like a smoker. Or the way it sounds when you blow air or talk through a glass. It sounds painful. "Only one... person out... there that... calls me... what they... _know_ i'm... i'm not... anymore."

He can hear him _breathing._ Struggling.

He takes a step forward; wanting to be near him and far away at the same time. There's a chair in a corner that he brings over to the bed, setting it down. He returns a half smile.

"Sorry, lieutenant -" He makes an odd face, scrunching it up. "Hank - I suppose it's a habit." He lowered himself into the chair, leaving the flowers in his lap with his hands, sheepish. They aren't partners anymore. Connor's not even a detective anymore. He's much higher than that.

"Fuckin... can't catch a... break... with the form...alities can I... gonna... be the... death of me... not my liver... not m- my heart..."

The statement is very Hank; and leaves him feeling a wave of realization once more. At the all too aware joke - he almost feels defensive on his behalf. Wants to assure him of something unable to reassured.

Connor presses his lips together. There's a prick of something somewhere. He denies it.

**STRESS LEVELS: 72%**

_Stop it._ He tells his systems. There's so much at once and so much that is new but the last thing the former lieutenant needed was his self destruction.

"Those... for me...?" The lieu - Hank, floats his gaze to the roses. "Shit... shoulda... shoulda bought me... a drink... first." The wheezing sounds intensified; and a mix of air trapped and plastic crumpling in on itself.

Connor stirs; aware of them again. They crinkle in his lap from being jostled. And he looks up again. Brows twisted. He's not a very expressive person, it looks wrong on him.

"Hank, I..."

He doesn't finish. And instead stares down at his fingers. Without looking, he sets the roses down on Hank's stomach.

"You... al...right? son?"

His head snaps up; incredulous. "Your body is irreversibly failing you and you're asking if _i'm_ alright? Hank..."

"Ahh... bound to... happen even...tually. Life's... a fucking... bastard... too old..."

Like a child, he replies; "But I _don't want_ it to happen!"

He... doesn't... know - he doesn't want...

He's didn't have friends before - family before; he's didn't have family and whatever they've become since then...

He's didn't have family before and now he's not going to have any.

He wants more. _More time._

"Yeah... I... I... I... K...now. But..." Hank breaks off; suddenly interrupted by a terrible wheezing. It takes several seconds before he is able to resume.

"But... this... happens and... I know... its hard... but... b - you're... you'll be fine."

He doesn't know yet if that is true. He's never lived in a world without Hank in it. He'd only ever _not_ have known Hank for three months. Since then, they had become the world's most unlikely duo.

"But you're my... friend. Please, lieutenant, I..."

"Ah... just... Just let me die in... peace... will ya...? Know... know we're... p...artners... but shit, pleading won't... solve... nothing... just..."

"I'm sorry."

"What... for?"

"I don't know, apologizing felt right."

Hank's taught him a great deal about being alive. Being human. He was the first person to ever treat him as anything other than a machine; even when he saw himself as one.

He wants more time. Or less for himself. He doesn't want to live forever; not if the end result is this. He can get another dog or ten dogs or ten thousand dogs, he can make ten thousand friends and lose eight thousand human friends; he can writhe in the dangerous, drenched downpour of losses upon agonizing losses; he can gain promotions and spend the rest of his life solving crimes and doing what he was built for. But he wants _Hank too._ Deviant. Or not.

He misses Sumo. He misses Hank's house. He misses solving crimes with him. He misses the routine. He misses his friend.

Why does it feel like copper in his mouth?

"Shit you... you're just... like... li... him some... times..."

Connor's brows furrow. "Like who?"

"C...ole.... always.... apolo...gi...zing. You... alw...ays.... reminde...d me... of.... him..."

Hank never talks about him. Connor's only ever heard him talk about his dead son a trio of times. He doesn't ask; or force it.

"Fu....ck... with... luck.... may...be... there's... a p...arty... after.... all..." Another drawn out wheeze; Hank coughs. The light from the televison set brightens his haggard features. "after all... of this... fi...nally fucking.... see h...im again... but..."

His coughs sound like explosions in the sky.

"but... I sure... w...ould have... fo...und out... earl...ier... if y- you hadn't... shown... up..."

Hank's come farther than anyone; including Connor, thought he would.

"Hank..."

"Y...ou're f - f - fa...mily... k...id... a...nd..."

Rapidly; Hank breaks away. There's an increase in his short, sickly breaths. The beeping is steady; quiet.

"You'....re... fa..."

Another wheeze; however this time is something cursed; far worse. For a moment he struggles to release the last few strings of words. But there is a spike in his heartbeat; and another sound emerges from the trenches of solitude.

He stares at Connor like the sun incarnate. He grips the flowers on his body like a scorned foe.

It's... the worst sound Connor has ever heard. But not unheard of before. It's low and wet - like a throat crept and chipped away by the waterfalls of life, nd slippery; It's a croak - continued; then a wheeze; log embers crackling - crackle.

It's throaty; like noise in a glass again but emptier. RA9; it is filled with nothing but saliva. It's a ghost and a ghoul and fake and false and existence profound and let down. The wolf; devouring decayed red - alone and fearful of the throne of the gods; of which the king has gotten up for dinner.

It goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it _goes._ It goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it It goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes. It goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes and it goes.

And it lingers And it lingers And it lingers And it lingers And it lingers And it lingers And it lingers And it lingers AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT LINGERS AND IT **LINGERS.**

_And then it stops._


End file.
